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YRICSor 


By 

ALICE  ROLLIT  COE 


~!>    i-j 

L.  ROSS  CARPENTER 


Seattle 


YBIC5or 


AND 


OSM 


By 

ALICE  ROLLIT  COE 


Etchings  by 

L.  ROSS  CARPENTER 


Seattle 
The  Alice  Harriman  Co. 

Publishers 

1908 


Copyright  1908 

by 
Alice  Rollit  Coe 


SEATTLE 

LOWMAN  &  HANFORD  CO. 
PRINTERS 


of 


The  Yule  Log 

Introduction 
The  Blue  Cascades 

Illustrated 
The  Wave 
Cedar  Lake 

Illustrated 
Life's  Rose 
Fulfilment 
Faring  Forth 

Illustrated 
Seattle 

The  Falling  Fir 
The  Deserted  Cabin 

Illustrated 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
The  Meadow-Lark 

Illustrated 
Lessons 

Facing  the  Sunrise 
An  April  Day 
Ebb  Tide 
The  Old  Church  Tower 

Illustrated 
Fraser  Canyon 
A  Woodland  Wooing 

Illustrated 
Old  Lace 
The  Tyee 

Illustrated 
By  Latticed  Arch 
To  a  Water  Lily 
On  Extending  Twentieth  Avenue 
Love  in  Alaska 
On  the  Way 


nf  Jftr  attfc  Jfaam 

— Continued 


The  House  Boat  on  the  Sticks 

Illustrated 
The  Northern  Passage 

Illustrated 

The  Ingle  Nook 

Illustrated 
Questionings 
Hail  to  the  Fleet 

Illustrated 
The  Cruise  of  the  Oregon 

Illustrated 

The  Man  Behind  the  Gun 
Outward  Bound 

Illustrated 


^_  / 

I    J. 

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The  biasing  Yule  log's  cheery  ^low 
Was  caughl  from  5uji5  of  long  ago  > 
5o,  once  ;on  Bcthlehgra  sfrfiamed  the  light 

M 

That  warms  each  hcartlhis  Christmas  ni§ht 


/4//  i/ie  witchery  of  springtime,  all  the  summer's  splendor  fades; 
Yet  for  me  the  light  is  breaking  on  the  blue  Cascades. 

•  AWN!      The  rugged  line  of  mountains  black  against  a 

copper  sky; 

Black,  the  gaunt  firs  in  the  foreground;  then  the  level  clouds  that  lie 
Stretched  above  them  flush  to  crimson  all  the  reaches  of  the  sky. 

And  the  lake  has  caught  the  glory!     Suddenly  upon  its  breast 
Every  little  lifeless  ripple  wakes  to  rose  and  amethyst: 
Now  each  peak  is  royal  purple,  etched  in  gold  along  its  crest. 

Twilight  comes:    across  the  mountains  and  the  lake  soft  colors 

steal — 

Ash  of  rose  and  liquid  beryl, — moving  mists,  that  slowly  feel 
Their  dim  way  among  the  foothills,  here  obscure  them,  there  reveal. 

Dreams,   ambitions,    loves,   illusions, — one   by   one   their   beauty 

fades; 
But  for  me  the  sunset  lingers  on  the  blue  Cascades. 


uhc  iOaur 

Vashon  Island 

^ ITTLE  wave,  brown  wave,  pulsing  on  the  pebbles, 

Hidden  in  the  shadow  of  the  spreading  alder  trees, 
Do  you  see  your  brothers,  afoam  upon  the  ocean, 
Leaping  in  the  sunlight,  bending  to  the  breeze? — 
Little  wave,  brown  wave, 
You  are  one  with  these. 

Little  heart,  foolish  heart,  fretting  in  the  shallows, 

Eager  to  be  moving  in  the  swift,  strong  tides  that  run 
Far,  far  out  to  seaward, — yet  the  same  life  surges 
From  these  quiet  eddies  to  the  dipping  sun: 
Little  heart,  foolish  heart, 
You  and  they  are  one. 


II 


Qkfcar 

I  WOULD  my  life  were  like  this  quiet  lake, 
Shut  from  the  windy  world  by  mountains  high, 
The  stillness  of  the  dawn  upon  my  breast 
Ere  yet  the  hush  is  broken  by  the  birds; 
Gazing  entranced  upon  the  snowy  peaks, 
No  thought  less  pure  than  they,  reflected  there ; 
Flushing  with  joy  to  greet  the  coming  sun, 
And  in  my  heart,  all  night,  star-thoughts  of  God! 


THE  lattice,  Love!  and  see 
How  my  rose  has  bloomed  for  thee! 

Ah,  what  care  did  nature  bring 

To  its  utmost  perfecting! 

At  no  cost  if  it  were  born. 

Why  the  thorn?      , 

Many  a  sweet,  forgotten  night 
Filled  its  cup  with  perfume  light; 
In  its  bosom,  fold  on  fold, 
Lies  the  blush  of  dawns  untold — 
Daily  largess  of  the  sun. 
All  in  one. 

So  in  love,  Life's  rose,  are  met 
Aspirations  infinite, 
The  quintessence  of  the  tears 
Shed  thro*  all  the  bitter  years, 
Joy  of  wakening  woods  that  bring 
Birds  a-wing. 

Shall  we,  in  despite  of  pain. 
Eagerly  its  sweetness  drain? 
Pull  its  petals  all  apart? 
Bare  its  trembling,  golden  heart? 
Toss  aside,  and  let  it  lie, 
So  to  die? 


Continued 


Nay,  not  so,  but  tenderly 
Will  I  pluck  the  rose  for  thee — 
See,  the  dew  upon  it  lingers! 
Take  it,  Love,  with  reverent  fingers, 
In  the  hollow  of  thy  breast 
Let  it  rest. 


JTulfilmnit 


I  WILL  sing  to  the  world,"  she  said ; 
"So  sweet  my  song  shall  be, 
The  very  birds  will  hush  their  throats 
And  men  will  die  for  the  love  of  me." 

In  a  warm  home  nest, 
She  sings  to  the  baby  on  her  breast; 
His  tiny  ear 
Alone  may  hear. 

'There  are  laurels  to  win,"  she  cried; 

"My  brow  must  wear  its  crown; 
There's  a  world  of  work  for  voice  and  pen, 
And  sweet  the  hope  of  a  fair  renown." 

With  patient  art, 

She  writes  but  Love  on  her  baby's  heart; 
With  tear  and  prayer, 
That  one  word  there. 


"The  great  winds  wait." 

— Faring  Forth. 


Jfarituj  Jtotly 


HE  light  on  the  mountain  has  faded, 
The  shadows  are  folded  low 

On  the  foothills  that  glowed  like  beryl; 

To  the  southward,  far  and  slow, 

The  white  sail  slips  from  the  circling  arm 

Of  the  harbor-line  at  last, 

And  the  great  winds  wait  to  bear  it  out 

To  the  sea,  unknown  and  vast. 

The  night  on  the  upland  is  falling, 

As  my  weary  heart  and  I 

Fare  forth  from  the  well-known  haven — 

There  are  few  to  say  good-bye: 

The  work  that  is  all  unfinished; 

The  victories  none  applaud; 

The  love  that  failed; — but  what  care  I 

Asleep  on  the  breast  of  God? 


QUEEN  of  the  West!     Fair  city  of  our  hope! 
Seated,  like  Rome,  upon  her  seven  hills, 
With  majesty  of  mountain  girt  about, 
And  at  thy  feet  the  sea.     Mist-swathed  at  dawn, 
Banded  with  jewels,  like  the  sky,  at  night. 
The  soft  Pacific  wave  that  laps  thy  feet, 
Urges  thy  freighted  ships  to  distant  shores, 
Bringing  the  treasures  of  the  East  again. 
Here  is  thy  throne  of  beauty;  here  we  see 
The  last  great  monument  that  man  has  set 
To  mark  his  slow  and  painful  westward  way. 
Mother  of  giants  yet  to  be,  all  hail! 
Pulsing  with  joyous  life  in  all  thy  veins, 
Rich,  warm  and  young! 

How  beautiful  thou  art! 
Stretching  thine  arms  to  greet  the  Orient; 
Gazing,  with  eyes  of  mystery,  to  pierce 
The  far  sea-spaces;  dreaming,  mother-like; 
The  boundaries  of  thy  power  still  unset, 
The  wonder  of  thy  destiny  unknown. 


Jallutg 


GENTURIES  long,  to  the  north  wind's  song, 
I  have  beaten  a  rythmic  time; 
On  my  dark  green  crest  did  the  eagle  rest,  — 
I  was  King  of  the  Northern  Clime. 


With  axe  and  with  saw,  and  with  wedge,  at  last, 
They  have  conquered  my  mighty  girth; — 

A  moment  I  sway — then  tear  my  straight  way 
Through  the  shuddering  trees,  to  earth: 

(A  flutter  of  birds  in  trembling  flight, 
Soft  boughs  dropping  one  by  one) 
A  Titan  sigh — and  prone  I  lie — 
Undone,  undone,  undone. 


"How  desolate  it  stands  upon  the  slope 
Of  yonder  hill." 

— The  Deserted  Cabin. 


(Cabin 

Whidby  Island 


BOW  desolate  it  stands  upon  the  slope 
Of  yonder  hill  ;   the  vacant  windows  stare  ; 
No  curtain  sways  ;   no  eager  welcome  waits 
From  smiling  faces  there. 

The  path  is  overgrown,  and  through  the  grass, 
Self-sown,  the  pansies  from  their  border  stray; 
And  thick  athwart  the  door  the  ivy  shade 
Grows  deeper  day  by  day. 

And  such  my  life  since  you  have  left:  the  ram 
Unheeded  falls,  the  sun  shines  as  of  old, 
But  lingers  not  in  all  the  dreary  rooms 
To  touch  your  hair  to  gold. 

And  yet,  a  little  vine  of  memory 
Clings  round  the  doorway  where  your  garments  swept; 
Close  to  the  threshold  where  your  footfall  passed, 
Forget-me-nots  have  crept. 


For  the  Coterie 

RAVE  soldier  heart!  condemned  to  stand  aside 
'And  watch  the  marching  columns  as  they  passed; 

To  know  that  each  man  had  his  fighting  chance 

At  least ;  that,  whether  he  returned  at  night 

Bearing  his  shield  or  on  it,  his  the  joy 

Of  striking  with  what  might  he  had  for  right 

And  freedom.     Only  thou — a  patriot,  too — 

Who  like  that  earlier  hero,  could  have  cried, 

'A  hundred  lives  were  all  too  few  for  me 

That  I  might  give  them  for  my  country," — thou 

Must  be  denied,  thy  flaming  spirit  pent 

Within  a  form  how  frail! 

Some  springs  there  be, 

That  wanting  outlet,  turn  to  bitterness; 

Some  smothered  fires  eat  out  the  heart  of  life; 

But  in  the  fine  alembic  of  thy  soul 

No  aspiration  perished, — but  transfused, 

Transmuted,  found,  at  length,  its  gracious  use. 

Some  word  of  thine  has  nerved  another's  arm, 

Down  on  the  firing  line,  to  mighty  deed ; 

Some  song  of  courage  fallen  on  the  ear 

Grown  deaf  to  duty;    or,  some  cheering  thought 

Of  brotherhood  has  warmed  the  heart  of  one 

Cut  off  from  rescue, — boldly  striking  out 

One  last,  brave  blow  before  he  falls — alone. 

And  so  the  hero's  meed  is  thine  at  last; 

Untried  in  war,  but  captain  of  thy  soul; 

In  life's  grim  conflict,  victor ;    for  we  read, 

Not  he  who  takes  a  city  merits  praise, 

But  he  who  rules  his  spirit; — so  we  lay 

The  laurel  wreath  upon  thy  lonely  grave. 


"O  to  wander  in  the  wood-ways."      . 
— The  Mtadou--l.<irl. 


OHAVE   you  heard  the  meadow-lark,   the  meadow-lark, 
the  meadow-lark? 

D  have  you  heard  it  singing  in  the  woods  of  Washington? 
Wnen  the  dogwood  bloom  is  drifted  white  against  the  somber 

hemlocks, 

Like  late  snows  caught  in  the  hill-clefts  when  Winter's  past 
and  gone? 

0  to  wander  in  the  wood-ways!  where  the  close-set  firs  are  rising 
Tall  and  stately,  like  the  pillars  of  some  old  cathedral  gray, 

Every  fluted  shaft  uplifted  straight  and  naked  to  the  arches 

Of  the  thick,  green  boughs  that  top  them,  shutting  out  the  light 
of  day. 

Here,  the  arbutus,  the  sweetest  of  the  flowers  of  old  New  Eng 
land, 

Finds  a  rival  in  the  blossom  of  the  pink  salal  that  peeps 
From  the  burnished  leaves  that  cluster  close  about  the  fallen  cedar, 
Crowding   downward   to   the   mosses  where  the  tiny   tea-vine 
creeps. 

The  slender  dappled  alders  by  the  brook  are  scare  a-quiver; 

The  silence  falls  caressingly  like  snowflakes  on  the  fir; — 
And  then  we  hear  the  meadow-lark,  "Sweet,  Sweet,"  its  voice  is 
calling — 

We  hush  our  hearts  to  listen  to  the  Spring's  dear  messenger. 

The  nightingale  in  story  lives,  enchantress  of  the  woodland; 

And  the  little  English  skylark  every  poet's  heart  has  won; — 
But  oh!  to  hear  the  meadow-lark,  the  meadow-lark,  the  meadow- 
lark! 

Once  more  to  hear  it  singing  in  the  woods  of  Washington! 


ITH  open  book  before  her 
In  which  her  task  was  set, 
A  little  child  sat  sorrowing 
With  cheeks  and  lashes  wet; 
She  saw  the  roses  blowing, 
She  heard  the  wood-birds  sing, 
"Ah,  me!"  she  sighed,  "but  learning 
Is  such  a  weary  thing!" 

With  open  book  before  her 
Where  life's  sad  lessons  lay, 
A  woman  sat  and  sorrowed 
Through  all  the  lonely  day: 
She  saw  the  roses  wither, 
The  bird  of  peace  take  wing, 
"Ah,  me!"  she  sighed,  "forgetting 
Is  such  a  weary  thing!" 


3Faruu; 


mountain  tops  were  splendid  with  the  dawn, 
The  sea  aglow,  the  morning  that  he  died, 
And  there  was  light  upon  his  face  at  last, 
As  if  the  secret  of  the  dawn  were  his. 
Yet  all  his  days  were  passed  in  bitter  toil 
In  weary  cities,  shut  from  sun  and  sea. 
Joy  laid  no  roses  at  his  happy  feet; 
Love  crowned  him  not,  and  Sorrow  oft  o'ertook 
And  fared  with  him  along  the  dusty  way. 
But  let  not  Pity  weep  a  soul's  defeat, 
Nor  think  his  life  unfruitful  of  reward; 
Though  Love  denied  him  he  had  learned  to  love; 
Though  unattained  the  heights  to  which  he  strove, 
The  hardy  sinews  of  the  climber  his; 
Joy  was  not  his,  yet  other  hearts  there  were 
That  sang  for  gladness  he  made  possible: 
So,  with  serene  though  all  unlaureled  brow. 
Triumphantly  he  entered  into  Life. 


Att  April  lag 


IT  is  April, — exquisite  April! 
Loveliest  child  of  die  Spring; 
Timid,  even  to  tears, 
But  the  smiles  are  tarrying 
Only  a  moment  behind, 
And  when  she  smiles,  we  say 
"We  would  live  a  life  of  winters 
For  just  this  April  day!" 


t bb 


FjHEN  Life  and  Love  were  new,  dear  heart, 
^AS      How  lavishly  we  spent 
The  precious  hours — how  lightly  met, 
And  parted  well  content. 

Now  life  is  at  the  ebb,  dear  heart, 

But  Love — ah,  Love  will  stay! 
Cling  closer,  closer  yet,  dear  heart — 

Thank  God  for  each  sweet  day! 


"Now  the  Ivy  wraps  m«-  round." 
— The   Ohl   ('Inn:  li     / 


(J&lfc  (Efptrrlj 

Tacoma 


ONG,  blessed  years  I  lifted 

My  green  top  to  the  sun, 
Before  man  came  and  laid  them  low — 
My  brothers, — one  by  one. 

The  birds*  song,  and  the  wind's  song, 
They  made  a  pleasant  sound; — 

Now  my  mighty  shaft  is  broken, 
And  the  ivy  wraps  me  round. 

They  have  built  a  House  of  Worship, 

They  have  hung  a  bell,  to  say, 
"Turn,  turn  aside  and  worship  God, 
It  is  the  Sabbath  Day. 

"Leave  off  your  busy,  restless  work; 
Come,  turn  aside  and  pray" — 
But  we,  His  trees,  and  His  ivy  green. 
We  worship  God  alway. 


(Eamjmt 


CERCHANCE  in  such  a  place  as  this,  apart 
From  all  the  ways  of  men,  with  hate  athirst, 
Trusting  vast  silences  his  guilt  to  hide, 

Some  wretched  Cain  has  wrought  the  deed  accurst — 
And  lo!  the  world,  agape,  has  on  his  secret  burst. 

But  had  some  gentle  spirit  blossomed  here, 

Brimmed  with  the  love  of  men,  his  quiet  day 

Spent  in  distilling  all  the  sweets  he  drew 
From  solitude, — to  honor  his  dead  clay 
Pilgrims,  with  hearts  aflame,  would  crowd  the  narrow  way. 


HE  mist  gathers  white  on  the  mountains 

White  are  the  sails  on  the  bay ; 
The  evergreen  woods  come  trooping 

Down  to  the  dashing  spray. 
Clusters  of  wild  spirea, 

Flecking  the  shore,  will  be 
Like  blossoms  of  foam,  when  the  summer 
Comes  to  the  inland  sea. 

At  the  door  of  the  forest,  the  dogwood 

Stretches  its  arms  of  snow. 
Guardian  of  secrets  only 

The  heart  of  a  lover  may  know. 
Silently,  far  above  us. 

The  wind's  soft  fingers  stir 
The  pale,  green  plume  of  the  alder. 

Lifted  against  the  fir. 


-V* 


The  ferns  at  our  feet  are  unfolding, 

The  Oregon  grape  a-bloom, 
Its  delicate,  golden  tassels 

Touching  with  light  the  gloom 
Of  the  twilight  trail  we  follow. 

Lured  by  the  witchery 
Of  white-starred  dewberry,  twining 

The  trunk  of  the  fallen  tree. 

The  meadow-lark  sings  from  the  cedar, 

The  laugh  of  the  brook  replies — 
Mad  with  delight,  as  it  hurries 

Down  where  the  sea-gull  flies. 
Love — ah,  long  she  was  straying — 

Has  ended  her  weary  quest, 
Like  Spring  to  the  waiting  woodlands, 

She  comes,  a  song  in  her  breast. 


WV  jHEN  it  is  dark  and  rainy, 

W    And  there's  no  fun  anywhere, 
I  like  to  go  to  grandma's  room 
And  curl  up  in  a  chair. 

Then  she  unlocks  her  bureau  drawer, 
And  takes  out  all  the  things 

She  calls  her  treasures, — there  are  pearls, 
And  chains,  and  pins,  and  rings, 

And  tiny  baby  shoes  she  says 

Her  children  used  to  wear, 
And  the  cutest,  softest,  yellow  curls 

Of  little  babies'  hair. 

And  then  she  puts  them  all  aside, 
And  lifts  from  out  its  place, 

Behind  the  rest,  the  long  blue  box 
That  holds  her  fine  old  lace. 

There  are  just  yards  and  yards,  and  I 
Stand  close  beside  her  chair, 

And  touch  it  softly,  just  like  this — 
But  grandma  doesn't  care. 

What  do  you  think  she  told  me  once? 

"Some  day,  when  you're  a  bride. 
This  lace  will  all  be  yours,  my  dear" — 
I  felt  so  queer  inside, 


Car* 

—  Continued 


My  heart  it  gave  a  flutter, 
Like  a  little  birdie  flying; 

But  when  I  looked  at  grandma — 
My  grandmamma  was  crying! 


She  didn't  cry  like  me,  of  course, 
But  slowly  down  her  face 

A  little  tear-drop  crept,  and  fell 
Upon  the  soft  old  lace. 

She  looked  so  sorry  that  I  thought 

I  hadn't  better  stay; 
She  didn't  notice  when  I  kissed 

Her  cheek  and  slipped  away. 

I  often  wonder  why  it  was 
The  tears  were  on  her  face, 

That  day  she  opened  the  blue  box, 
And  showed  me  her  old  lace. 


"No  more  upon  the  silent  lake 
He  guides  the  long  canoe." 

— The  Tyee. 


MORE  upon  the  silent  lake 
He  guides  the  long  canoe; 
Nor  seeks  the  forest  openings 

Where  the  deer  come  trooping  through. 

His  fire  is  out  upon  the  beach; 

No  sign  on  wood  or  stream 
Is  left  to  tell  us  that  he  lived — 

His  life  is  but  a  dream. 

No  skill  had  he  to  mark  for  us 

The  dear,  familiar  spot; 
Like  mist  upon  the  mountain's  brow 

He  was — and  he  is  not. 


Hatttofc  Arrty 


the  garden  of  the  Past 
The  ways  are  cool  and  wide; 
Soft-footed  Memory  goes  before, 
Joy,  laughing,  runs  beside, 

Adown  the  dear  old  paths,  to  where 

The  brooklet  stays  our  feet; 
There,  Memory,  by  latticed  arch, 

Where  rose  and  myrtle  meet, 

Finger  on  lip,  will  pause  a  space, 

And  lightly  lean  and  lift 
The  loose-swung  curtain  of  the  vine, 

And  smile  at  me; — but  swift 

I  turn  aside — that  path  no  more 

With  eager  feet  I  trace, 
Lest,  suddenly,  with  breath  indrawn, 

I  meet — thee — face  to  face! 


Uto  a  Ebtrr 


HERE  have  you  come  from  my  beautiful  lily? 

Not  from  a  region  of  darkness  or  cold. 
Fairy  airs  cherished  your  pure,  pearly  petals, 
Fairy  suns  tinted  your  heart's  yellow  gold. 

Made  you  your  bed  where  the  light  zephyrs  linger, 
Nestled  in  mosses,  close-cradled  with  care? 

Was  your  light  stamen's  perpetual  tremble 

Stirred  by  soft  music  that  thrilled  through  the  air? 


Down  in  the  deep,  tangled  roots  of  the  rushes, 
Slept  I  unheeding  beneath  the  blue  lake; 

Till  from  the  wonderland  stretching  above  me 
Came  a  soft  voice  calling  me  to  awake. 

Upward,  still  upward,  all  darkly,  all  blindly — 

Safe  in  my  bosom  a  treasure  I  bore; 
Might  I  sink  downward  and  give  up  the  struggle? — 

I  could  not  rest  as  I  rested  before. 

When  the  glad  sunlight  first  smiled  me  a  greeting. 
Thrilling  me  through  with  the  deepest  delight. 

Open  I  flung  every  gleaming  white  petal — 
Where  had  I  gathered  a  burden  so  bright? 


ate  a  Hafrr 

— Continued 

O  the  sweet  bliss  of  a  mission  accomplished! 

O  the  first  breath  of  the  lovelier  life! 
What  was  the  struggle  to  me?     It  was  ended: 

Where  is  the  darkness  when  sunshine  is  rife? 

• 

Learn  thou  a  lesson,  O  heart  full  of  sorrow, 

Think  not  that  loveless  or  useless  thy  fate, 
Dreams  cannot  dream  what  the  future  may  yield  thee, 

Learn  to  look  upward  and  patiently  wait. 


p's  no  Tan  to  pi|>«-  i.-il:iy 
— On   l-'fti  iiilinii   TiKiili'tli     \ 


GDtt  lExfrttbutg  Qfarctrtwilj  Annas* 

Sea«/e 

GUT  IT  through!  yes,  do! 
Split  Ravenna  Park  in  two! 
Spoil  the  forest?     What's  the  odds? 
Woods  were  made  for  pagan  gods; 

There's  no  Pan  to  pipe  to-day — 
Clear  the  rubbish  all  away! 
Sweeter  than  his  voice  of  old 
Is  the  chink  of  yellow  gold. 

From  the  banks,  his  notes  so  clear, 
Charmed  the  mild,  ancestral  ear 
With  their  tender  music — thanks, 
I'll  take  mine  on  city  banks. 

Yes,  we  know  the  stately  trees 
Fling  their  banners  to  the  breeze, 
Root  them  out!  and  in  the  holes 
Plant  the  graceful  trolley  poles. 

True,  no  birds  will  gather  there, 
But  we  haven't  time  to  spare 
For  their  music  in  the  Spring — 
Let  the  busy  wires  sing! 

But  the  brook — pshaw!  what's  a  stream 
But  a  place  to  sit  and  dream? 
That's  a  thing  of  small  amount, 
Dreams  won't  swell  your  bank  account. 


ExtfttiUtg  Qfarctrtfrtlj 

— Continued 


"Thing  of  beauty" — yes,  I  know; 

"Joy  forever" — maybe  so; 
But  in  business  beauty's  "nil" — 
Just  remember  Denny  Hill. 

Children  love  it,  did  you  say? 
What  of  that?     It's  just  their  way; 
Nothing  better  than  a  street! 
That's  the  place  for  them  to  meet. 

Let  me  tell  you,  there's  no  time 
In  this  busy,  bustling  clime, 
Just  to  moon  around  a  park — 
Better  be  a  money  shark. 

All  this  talk  of  what  we  owe 
To  posterity,  is  slow; 
There  is  just  one  thing  to  say 
On  the  subject — will  it  pay? 


ut  Alaska 


I  WAS  a  hardy  sour-dough, 
Vintage  of  ninety -seven ; 
She  was  a  gentle  tenderfoot, 

Just  floated  down  from  heaven. 

I  thought  I'd  staked  my  claim  all  right, 

I  ain't  in  no  wise  weak. 
But,  say!  she  jumped  it  right  away, 
'Fore  anyone  could  speak. 

Affections  isn't  just  the  things 

You  want  a-lyin'  loose 
Around  a  mining  camp — you  see, 

They  ain't  no  sort  o*  use. 

I  long  ago  had  cached  my  heart 

By  way  of  self-defence — 
She  found  my  cache ;   she  dug  it  up ; 

And  kep'  it  ever  sence. 


V  W  OU  are  starting  on  a  journey — and  a  weary  way  to  go, 
t^1^     Alone,  untaught,  bewildered,  by  the  many  things  to  know, 

If  you  win  the  summit's  shining  peaks  that  thrill  your  heart  with 
song — 

Then  learn  a  little,  learn  a  little,  as  you  go  along. 

There  happiness  awaits  you,  and  the  joy  of  souls  that  dream, 
And  attain  their  dreams,  though  loneliness  and  bitterness  may  seem 
To  be  their  portion  for  awhile — the  world  is  not  all  wrong — 
So  laugh  a  little,  laugh  a  little,  as  you  go  along. 

'Tis  well  to  lift  a  steadfast  eye  to  visions  far  away, 
But  feeble,  groping  fingers  touch  your  garment's  hem  to-day; 
The  years  of  earthly  pilgrimage  are  few,  and  death  is  strong — 
So  love  a  little,  love  a  little,  as  you  go  along. 


. 

o  o 

_  ... 

-  - 

s  S 

•;  c 


ahc  ffiinisp  lUnut  on 

Quartermaster  Harbor 

With  Apologies  to  John  Kendrick  Bangs. 

FOUND  him  sitting  on  the  beach  beneath  an  alder  tree; 
His  legs  were  crossed,  a  newspaper  was  spread  upon  his 
knee; 

But  nothing  in  the  paper  his  attention  seemed  to  fix; 

He  just  sat  idly  gazing  at  the  House  Boat  on  the  Sticks. 

A  shabby  looking  boat  enough, — a  cabin,  cramped  and  small, — 
A  sail  rigged  up  upon  the  roof  above  it, — that  was  all. 

"But  then,  it's  all  the  house  I  got,"  said  he,  "and  when  a  man 
Don't  own  a  floatin'  palace,  he  must  do  the  best  he  can. 

"There  ain't  much  room  to  spare,  for  sure,  it's  neither  long  nor 

wide; 
And  if  I  want  to  change  my  mind  I  have  to  go  outside. 

"I  know  there's  lots  o'  folks  that  want  a  house  that's  big  and  fine. 
But  I  don't  see  the  use  o'  that,  when  all  outdoors  is  mine. 

"If  I  should  want  a  change  o*  scene,  it  isn't  hard  to  find; 
Some  friendly  tug-boat  comes  along, — I  just  hitch  on  behind; 

"He  has  to  do  the  stokin',  see?  and  I  just  float  along; 

Or  I  can  sail  her  sometimes,  when  the  wind  don't  blow  too  strong. 

"Perhaps  you've  noticed  that  a  crowd  and  happiness  don't  mix. 
So  why  should  I  be  lonesome  in  my  House  Boat  on  the  Sticks? 

"And  when  you  feel  like  restin'  up,  why,  stranger,  drop  around; 
I'll  take  the  house  boat  off  the  sticks,  and  show  you  Puget  Sound." 


ahc 


E  were  coming  from  the  Northland, 

Where  the  snowy  peaks  look  down 
On  the  restless  life  that  pulses 

Through  the  quaint  old  Russian  town. 


And  our  ship  was  treasure-laden; 

For  our  hoard  of  precious  gold 
We  had  braved  the  mountain  peril. 

And  the  bitter  Arctic  cold. 


After  all  our  months  of  waiting, 
After  all  our  hopes  and  fears, 

We  could  see  the  dear  home  faces 
Smiling  at  us  through  their  tears. 


But  our  way  lay  through  a  channel 
We  must  traverse  warily, 

Where  of  old  some  giant  fingers 
Tore  a  pathway  for  the  sea. 


More  than  one  stout  ship  had  foundered 

On  the  rocks  on  either  side, 
For  no  light-house  lifts  its  beacon 

There  to  be  the  sailor's  guide. 


IDfartljmt 

— Continued 


But  our  ship  bore  bravely  onward 
Through  the  perils  of  the  way, 

Safely  in  the  blackest  midnight 
As  upon  the  fairest  day. 

And  we  asked  the  stalwart  Captain 
How  it  was  that  he  could  tell 

Where  the  dangerous  rocks  were  hidden; 
Cheerily  his  answer  fell 

On  the  anxious  hearts  about  him, 

And  his  words  I  ne'er  forgot, — 

"Well,  I  don't  know  where  the  rocks  are, 

But  I  know  where  they  are  not." 

When  the  way  looks  dark  before  me. 
Comfortingly  comes  the  thought, — 

Though  I  don't  know  where  the  rocks  are, 
Still  I  know  where  they  are  not. 


Captain  David  Wallace  of  the  Cottagt  City. 


"Home,  home,  to  the  inglenook." 

— The  Inglenook. 


3hwlr  -Xnnk 


HE  sunlight  flames  on  mountain  peak, 

And  floods  the  valley  to  the  brim: 
Go  forth,  rejoicing,  on  thy  way; — 
But  shadows  fall,  and  suns  grow  dim. 

Then  home,  home,  to  the  ingle  nook: 

When  rain  is  on  the  thatch, 
I  heap  the  hearth-fire  high  and  wait 

For  thy  hand  upon  the  latch. 

The  moonlight  on  the  limpid  lake 
A  path  of  fretted  silver  lies: 

0  follow,  follow,  follow  far; — 

But  moons  will  wane,  and  storms  arise. 

Then  home,  home,  to  the  ingle  nook: 
When  rain  is  on  the  thatch, 

1  heap  the  hearth-fire  high  and  wait 

For  thy  hand  upon  the  latch. 


IF  you  should  awake  in  the  morning, 
And  looking  away  to  the  sea, 
Should  catch  a  white  sail  drifting  slowly  away, 
And  knew  it  would  never  again  grace  the  bay, 
And  knew  that  the  ship  bore  me, 

Over  the  blue. 

Dear  little  heart  in  the  harbor  behind. 
Would  it  matter  to  you? 

If,  treading  the  dusty  highway, 
In  the  busy  noon  of  the  day. 
The  steps  that  had  wandered  near  yours,  my  sweet. 
Should  suddenly  cease,  and  the  oncoming  feet 
Should  trample  their  traces  away, 

And  then,  if  you  knew 
That  the  path  would  no  more  bear  the  print  of  my  feet. 

Would  it  matter  to  you? 

If  you,  in  the  dusky  twilight, 

Watching  the  stars  in  the  sky, 

Should  know  that  the  heart  that  had  loved  you  afar — 
The  heart  in  which  you  were  the  bright,  guiding  star, 
Had  sighed  you  a  last  good-bye — 

And  oh!  if  you  knew. 

That  it  broke  with  the  weight  of  its  silence — O  Love, 
Would  it  matter  to  you? 


—   c 

at  " 

'*  5: 


in 


OOM !  guns,  from  the  vessels  at  anchor ; 

Blow!  blasts,  from  a  hundred  mills; 
Boom!  till  the  jubilant  echoes 
Burst  from  the  distant  hills. 

Burn!  skies,  with  Italian  azure; 

Wind  from  the  North,  sweep  down 
On  the  sentinel  mountains  and  strip  them 

Cloudless,  from  base  to  crown. 

Lift,  like  a  bride,  sedately, 

Thy  soft  mist  veil,  and  be 
Revealed  in  thine  opaline  splendor, 

O  beautiful  inland  sea. 

Whiteness  of  snow  on  the  mountains, 
Whiteness  of  bloom  on  the  bough, 

Green  of  the  new-leaved  woodlands, 
Be  never  so  fair  as  now. 

Sweeping  from  ocean  to  ocean, 

The  battleship  fleet  is  bound 
'Frolic  or  fight,"  from  Hampton  Roads 

To  the  harbors  of  Puget  Sound. 

The  welcome  of  brothers  awaits  you! 

The  flag  we  unfurl  to  the  sun, 
Is  the  flag  that  you  fly  at  the  mast-head — 

The  East  and  the  West  are  one. 

And  one  they  must  be  forever! 
Stand  by!  for  we  need  you  here; 


IjaU  to 

— Continued 


We  have  won  the  West  for  the  nation, — 
We  must  hold  it  in  strength,  not  in  fear. 

We  have  whitened  the  pathless  prairie 
With  the  bones  of  horse  and  man, 

When  the  painted  savages  circled 
And  closed  on  the  lone  caravan; 

We  have  fought,  in  the  sand  of  the  desert, 
The  hunger — the  thirst  that  kills; 

We  have  blazed  a  trail  through  the  forest; 
We  have  blasted  a  way  through  the  hills; 

The  pulse  of  the  Pilgrims  beats  in  us: — 

Eager  to  spend  and  be  spent, 
We  have  builded  an  Empire  proudly 

On  the  rim  of  the  continent. 

The  future  is  big  with  meaning: — 
We  will  front  it,  whatever  it  be, 

With  our  backs  to  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
And  our  faces  toward  the  sea. 

Then  hail!  the  American  Navy! 

May  its  strength  and  its  fame  increase — 
The  bulwark  of  freedom  and  progress — 

The  bond  of  the  nation's  peace. 

Shout,  then,  a  mighty  welcome; 

Let  it  echo  to  old  Rainier — 
Here's  to  the  Atlantic  Squadron! — 

And  the  man  that  sent  it  here ! 


-  .; 

-  = 


(Unto  0f  tip 


ON  the  rough  Atlantic  waters, 
Ride  the  war  king's  grey-robed  daughters, — 
Wait  the  battleships,  impatient  for  the  coming  of  their  mate ; 
With  her  great  heart  throbbing  loudly, 
All  her  pennons  waving  proudly, 
Every  man  on  board  a  hero,  she  has  passed  the  Golden  Gate. 

Offspring  of  the  mild  Pacific, 

With  accoutrements  terrific, 
She  is  panoplied  in  armor  like  a  daughter  of  the  gods; 

Are  there  foes  against  her  banded? 

She  will  meet  them  single-handed — 
Rush  exultant  to  the  conflict  in  the  face  of  fearful  odds. 

Leagues  on  leagues  stretch  out  before  her. 

Alien  skies  will  darken  o'er  her, 
She  will  fly  before  the  tempest,  like  the  lordly  albatross, 

On  unwearied  pinion  sweeping, 

While  the  Nation's  heart  is  keeping 
Vigil  with  her,  as  she  passes  underneath  the  Southern  Cross. 

Builded  of  the  iron  taken 

From  the  mountain's  breast  unshaken, 
She  will  buffet  with  the  billows — she  will  laugh  the  waves  to  scorn ; 

On  her  giant  strength  relying, 

All  the  storm  king's  wrath  defying. 
Staunch  and  true  in  every  fiber,  she  has  proudly  swept  the  Horn. 


(Enris*  nf  tip 

— Continued 

To  the  Northward!     Straight  and  steady! 

Every  gun  is  manned  and  ready! 
Twice  she  touches  port,  but  turning,  swings  far  out  to  sea  again ; 

Swiftly  through  the  darkness  going — 

Not  a  signal  light  is  showing, 
To  betray  her  to  the  fury  of  the  old  sea  dogs  of  Spain. 

But  unscathed,  and  eager-hearted 

For  the  fight  as  when  she  started, 
She  is  coming  down  the  home  stretch,  all  her  perils  safely  passed : — 

How  we  swung  in  line  to  meet  her! 

How  the  guns  boomed  out  to  greet  her ! 
As  she  bore  down  bravely  on  us,  with  Old  Glory  at  her  mast ! 


uhc  iflatt  $rlmt&  %  (Gun 


HEY  say  that  life's  a  battle,  lad,  I  think  you'll  find  it  true  ; 
he  same  old  conflict  rages,  though  the  weapons  may  be 

new; 

But  in  every  kind  of  warfare  that  is  waged  beneath  the  sun, 
The  contest  is  decided  by  the  man  behind  the  gun. 

There  are  many  hidden  dangers  that  a  soldier  never  sees  — 
Blind  batteries  to  blast  you,  and  sharpshooters  in  the  trees, 
And  whether  you  will  falter,  or  the  foe  will  have  to  run, 
Will  depend  upon  the  mettle  of  the  man  behind  the  gun. 

There  will  come  supremest  moments,  in  the  battle  for  the  right, 
When  the  deck  is  cleared  for  action,  and  the  foe  is  just  in  sight,  — 
Then,  oh  then,  you  must  be  ready,  for  Manilas  are  not  won 
When  a  sluggard  or  a  coward  is  the  man  behind  the  gun. 

What  though  the  foe  grows  boastful,  and  counts  up  his  array 
Of  armies  and  of  battleships  to  fill  you  with  dismay  — 
Keep  up  your  target  practice!  —  vict'ry's  certain  as  the  sun! 
For  it's  not  the  heavy  cannon  —  it's  the  man  behind  the  gun  ! 


"All  her  snowy  pinions  spread." 

— Outicard  Bound. 


HARBORS  are  for  unused  ships: 
Mine  must  sail  the  seas, 
All  her  snowy  pinions  spread 
To  the  welcoming  breeze. 

She  must  visit  lands  afar; 

Many  precious  things 
Wait  her  where  in  distant  ports 

She  will  fold  her  wings. 

She  must  face  the  angry  gale 

When  the  storms  arise — 
Test  her  strength  and  prove  her  right 

To  bear  the  flag  she  flies. 

Should  she  drift,  a  broken  wreck, 

Helpless  and  undone — 
Better  that  than  anchored  here 

Rotting  in  the  sun ! 

Westward  blows  the  wind,  and  lo, 

Where  the  fair,  new  Day 
Lifts  his  banner  on  the  hills! — 

She  must  not  delay; 

Hoist  the  sails,  and  let  them  breathe 

Deep  and  full  and  round! 
For  the  sea  is  calling  her — 

She  is  outward  bound! 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

•  "in  mi  ir 


A  A      000284884    4 


